


A Drop in the Bucket

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Hawkeye Pierce, Hawkeye has a small penis, M/M, Smut, Trapper is hung like a Clydesdale, Watersports, piercintyre - Freeform, technically infidelity, this means peeing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 13:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17767910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: But then Frank suffered a glancing kick to the kidney from an ox belonging to a Korean family, and now Hawkeye has an excuse to watch him pee. (And oh, does he want to.)





	A Drop in the Bucket

"Come on, Frank, we don't have all day," Hawkeye says, cracking open another beer and setting it in front of Frank. Frank titters, like he does when he's nervous, and swigs the second beer.

"I really don't understand why this is necessary," he says, when he's finished swallowing. "It was just a knock to the kidney. I'll be fine—"

"I'm a doctor, Frank, and I want to make sure you're not peeing blood. Because if you _are_ , then you know you can't operate."

"Well, why not? Peeing doesn't hurt anyone." Frank glares at Hawkeye, who shrugs.

"If we have a marathon session, Frank, you can't be peeing blood in the OR. It's not sanitary."

"Pish tosh," Frank scoffs. "As if anything in that OR is sanitary, with you boobs mucking things up."

"Now, I resent that remark," Trapper says from his spot on his bunk, where he's lounging with a magazine. "Boobs are fine things, which I'm pretty sure ya'd know, Frank, since ya spend so much time between them."

"Now, I—"

"Drink up, Frank!" Trapper says with a cheerful grin, as Hawkeye sets another can of beer on Frank's lap. Frank is beginning to look distinctly squirmy, and Hawkeye can't help the little thrill of anticipation that goes through him at the sight. Because the latrines are closed, it's rare to get a sight of another man pissing these days. Back home, there were urinals. In Korea, everything is different—and _everything_ is awful.

But then Frank suffered a glancing kick to the kidney from an ox belonging to a Korean family, and now Hawkeye has an excuse to watch him pee. He doesn't know how many times this particular ruse will function, either, because if Frank _doesn't_ pee blood, then he has no reason to ask again.

If there is blood in his urine, though, maybe Hawkeye can swing two or even three times of watching him out of it. His stomach swoops at the thought; back in the States he spent more time than he should have sneaking illicit glances of his high school classmates, or later, of men in the hospital where he worked. Sometimes he'd get lucky—the doctor would be so distracted that he wouldn't notice Hawkeye's eyes, or if he couldn't risk a glance, he could at least listen—and usually those times he had to hide in a stall and jerk it as quickly as he could.

Thankfully, Trapper has never noticed Hawkeye's strange penchant for using the latrine at the same time as he does, solely so he could listen to Trapper piss—his crush is inconvenient enough to hide, never mind his fetish. Even now, Trapper is laughing and egging him on, completely oblivious to Hawkeye's nefarious ulterior motives.

"...right, Hawk?" Trap is saying, and Hawkeye has to shake his head to clear it. He's seen Trapper naked plenty of times, and while it hasn't lost its allure, he's downright dying to get a glimpse of Trapper's cock when it's slightly flushed and he's pissing. Just one look. That can't be too much to ask, can it?

But he knows it will never happen. If for no other reason than Trapper's a lot more intelligent than Frank; he'd suss out pretty quick what Hawkeye wanted and what he was doing—and why.

"Sorry, what?" Hawkeye says, eyes still glued to Frank, who has finished his third beer and whose face is red as a tomato. Well, a tomato back home. Here in the mess tent the tomatoes are often green.

"I _said_ , shouldn't be long now. Ya got the bucket?"

This is what makes Hawkeye realize that Frank, his face scrunched up, is so focused on his own misery that Trapper is able to talk to Hawkeye without the major even realizing they're discussing him. Hawkeye winks at Trapper.

"Just remember," he says, knowing there's a glint in his eye, "we watch, but you empty." Making Trap a co-conspirator in this venture hopefully keeps the spotlight off of Hawkeye specifically. Hopefully.

Trap rolls his eyes and tosses his magazine to the ground in the Swamp. "I got it, Hawk. But if there's blood—"

Hawkeye sighs. "If there's blood, we take a sample and bring it to Henry. And I get to do that part. Thanks." He says this last bit sarcastically, caustically, as if he hates the idea. But he's been adjacent to his own desires for so long that it doesn't really bother him. He's accidentally pissed on his own hand more times than he can count and he's never been grossed out by it. Though, he _is_ a doctor, so maybe that's why.

Though Trap should be just as immune to the idea.

"Ohh," Frank says in a high-pitched voice. Hawkeye grabs the bucket; Trapper strides quickly over and gets Frank to his feet.

"Steady now, Frank," Hawkeye says. "And make sure you aim for the bucket. There's enough filth in here already."

"I think I know what I'm doing," Frank snaps, voice wavering, as he fumbles with his belt. Hawkeye makes an aborted reach to help, then realizes how that might look—to Frank, to Trapper. So he snatches his hand back and shoves it under his thigh, staring too intently—he knows he's watching too closely—at Frank as he adjusts and points his dick down toward the mouth of the bucket.

All three of them take a collective breath when Frank starts to pee. Frank's sounds like relief, a gasp; Trapper's sounds like relaxation, a quick inhale; and Hawkeye is embarrassed because his breath sounds aroused.

Trap gives him a quick sidelong look, an expression that says things Hawkeye isn't prepared to answer, and Hawkeye can feel his gaze burning on his cheeks as he watches Frank closely. To his disappointment, the urine is a clear, pristine yellow.

"Has it got a pinkish tinge to you?" Hawkeye says, knowing there's a note of haphazard desperation in his tone, as he defers to Trapper. But Trapper shakes his head out of the corner of Hawkeye's eye—Hawkeye can't pull his gaze away from the stream—and says,

"Nah, Hawk, it's fine. You're good, Frank," he says. "No blood."

"I think I'd know that," Frank grouses, but he's not even looking towards the bucket. He's looking towards the half-open tent flaps with a flush on his cheeks. And with a sudden startle, Hawkeye recognizes the heat in his own cheeks as a flush. And Trap is staring straight at him.

Frank finishes up, shakes himself off, and tucks his cock away, turning and flomping onto his bunk and pulling out his Bible.

Hawkeye doubts he's actually reading anything yet, but as Trap picks up the half-full bucket, Hawkeye says,

"Just make sure it's not pink, okay?"

Trapper nods. "But it ain't, Hawk." He gives him a shrewd, assessing look, then ducks out of the Swamp to go empty the bucket in the latrine.

++

"We need to talk about this," Trapper says the next day, nudging the empty bucket with the toe of his boot. "About ya an' Frank."

Hawkeye pretends to keep reading Nudist Monthly. "There's no 'me and Frank,' Trap," he says absently, but it's a very carefully controlled response, one designed to be casual and inobtrusive. Unobjectionable. But of course Trapper knows him too well for that.

"Don' try to con a con man," Trap says, coming over and plopping onto Hawkeye's cot, forcing him to shove over an inch or two to make room. Even so, their thighs are touching.

"Would I do a thing like that to you?" Hawkeye says, poking his nose over the top of his magazine and arching an eyebrow at Trapper. Trapper, who is very, very close—close enough to see the gold in the green-brown of his eyes. His heart thumps rapidly in his chest and he buries himself in his magazine again. Besides, Trapper saying what he said about Frank doesn't mean anyth—

"Wait. Me and Frank?"

"Ya couldn' stop makin' eyes at 'im yesterday. Ya think I'm blind, Hawk? Or stupid? I passed medical school, same as ya did. I could tell what those flushed cheeks meant, those blown pupils, and—"

"Please, Trap. Please don't say anything." Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad. "It wasn't… _that_... it was just embarrassment."

"Hawk, ya ain't embarrassed by anythin'. Not a thing." Trapper snatches the magazine away. "An' ya know what? I ain't gonna say anything. But ya could at least be honest. Ain't I your best friend?"

"Trapper John, if you think I would, for one second, harbor lascivious feelings for Frank Burns, you haven't been paying attention."

Trapper stares at him. Too late, Hawkeye realizes what ammunition he just handed his best friend. If they're still friends, at any rate. The pause lengthens, and Hawkeye waits, on tenterhooks, for the grenade he just tossed onto their friendship to explode.

Finally, in a low voice, Trapper says, with a quick canvass around to made sure no one is nearby—thankfully Frank is in post-op—

"Hawk, I ain't… I ain't much for talkin' 'bout my feelings. Ya know that. An' I'm married… o' course ya know that too, I'm jus' ramblin' on now an'..."

His Boston accent is thick and sprawling and Hawkeye imagines it like honey; he wants to spread it on a piece of toast and eat it up. Trapper's warm hazel eyes don't waver from his, though, despite whatever this confession is costing him.

"Ya know what, I'm jus' gonna say, if ya really wanna watch somebody take a piss, it oughta be me. Ya know?"

"No, I don't know." Hawkeye blinks rapidly, trying to clear the haze from his eyes, because surely his vision isn't functioning correctly. Trapper's cheeks are a soft rose tinge, the hollow at his throat a flushed gentle pink. But even as he stares, it darkens, till it's a dusky red coloring his collarbones and disappearing into his t-shirt.

"Jesus, Hawk, ya ain't dense. C'mon." Trapper suddenly covers Hawkeye's hand with his. And then he drags it over, onto his thigh—his _inner_ thigh. This close, Hawkeye can feel the heat of the erection Trapper is sporting—his fingertips are just brushing against it.

"You…" But his clever tongue is suddenly stiff like wood, unable to come up with a quip to cover his tension. Because this is not at all what he expected; the Swamp is practically throbbing with Trapper's unspoken wants. And Hawkeye wants it too. But how much does Trapper know? Does he think he was angling for a glimpse of cock, when he watched Frank piss? Or… something more?

"Me," Trapper says, breathily. He swallows thickly, audibly, and lets go of Hawkeye's hand, giving him free rein to do what he will. Hawkeye isn't even sure, himself, what he's planning to do until his fingers make the decision for him and travel inward and up, until his palm is resting, cupped just barely, over Trapper's cock.

"I ain't makin' any promises, Hawk," Trapper says huskily, "but I sure do wish ya would move your hand. And add more pressure." And then, when Hawkeye's eyes fly to meet his, Trapper winks. "An' ya know, I gotta piss, too."

"I—I don't—"

"Loss for words? Not like ya," Trapper says. "Maybe this'll help." And he leans in, and those lips that Hawkeye has watched launch a thousand nurses into ecstasy, come close and then plant, firmly, on his. Trapper isn't shy about his desires now. He kisses Hawkeye forcefully, licking into his mouth, adding heat and pressure and the ghost of something intangible—something like lust, but not quite.

God, Trapper is an amazing kisser, Hawkeye thinks deliriously as Trap fights him for dominance, and then Hawkeye surrenders, because in this situation, in this scenario, he'd rather give up, give in, and go for the ride.

Trapper kisses him for a long time and Hawkeye is grateful the tent flaps are closed today, because he wasn't even thinking about it until Trapper's tongue touched and teased his. Now, he clutches at Trapper's perfect bicep with one hand and strokes him with the other, feeling him harden even more, until they're both gasping in tandem.

Hawkeye's own hard on is stiff, poking out his surgical scrubs, and then, just as suddenly as he realized how aroused he is, Trapper's large hand covers him completely. For a split second Hawkeye is ashamed; he wishes for a more generous size, like Trapper. But Trapper moans into his mouth when he gets his hand on it, and even though his hand dwarfs him, Hawkeye isn't ashamed anymore.

Then their kiss sort of breaks by mutual agreement, and Trapper's whole face is flushed a setting-sun red.

"Wanna come with me to the latrine?" he asks, squeezing Hawkeye's erection. "Maybe ya can do somethin' about this. Ya think?"

"Trap," Hawkeye says, "if I come and watch you piss, I won't need to _do_ anything about it; it'll probably just happen."

"No kiddin'? Ya could get off without even touchin' yourself?" The thought seems to brighten Trapper's lust-filled eyes, and his curls are sweaty against his forehead. His cock jumps beneath Hawkeye's hand, too.

"Maybe the better question is… how are you going to aim, like _that_?" Hawkeye asks, directing a pointed gaze downwards.

"It's a latrine, Hawk. It ain't that hard to hit the hole even like this." Trapper reads his expression. "What? Ya think I never got halfway there and interrupted?"

"I thought the nurses just loved you," Hawkeye says, and even he can hear the trace of jealousy in his voice.

"But surgery, Frank, even needin' to piss in the middle. It ain't difficult, really. C'mon. I'll meet ya there. Gimme five minutes an' follow me. If anyone's in the other side, I'll loiter."

And with that, Trapper slides out from beneath his questing hand and purposefully leaves the Swamp. Hawkeye checks his watch and then sits, bored and impatient, waiting for the minutes to crawl by so he can have his heart's desire.

Or something like that anyway, but maybe less corny.

He can hear people calling to each other throughout the compound, and he kneads his erection with his fist for a minute to keep himself on that keen edge before adjusting himself and getting to his feet.

The latrine area is deserted; Trapper's not outside loitering, so Hawkeye knocks on one side to see which is empty. Trapper calls out to him from the other side, so Hawkeye ducks inside and finds Trapper there, his pants already unbuckled, grinning wickedly at him.

"Come here often?" he asks, his smile going just a bit crooked. Hawkeye melts like the mess tent weenies in the sun.

"Only when I've had a good case of dysentery," Hawkeye replies, and Trap rolls his eyes a little.

"We doin' this, or what? Don' talk 'bout dysentery now, Hawk, or I won't need to worry about—" he gestures to his very impressive hard on "—this anymore."

"I, ah, won't. I wouldn't want to do any damage to something so beautiful." Hawkeye inches closer. "Can I hold it?"

"Ya mean while I piss? Yeah sure, I don' care. Though I don' think I've ever had anyone help me piss before."

"I'm a doctor, Trap! I'm surprised at you. With your current medical condition, someone ought to help you aim." He grins back at Trapper and wraps his fingers around it—Jesus, he needs his whole fist to completely surround Trapper's girth—and aims it downward. It's resistant, but Hawkeye has a dick of his own and knows how much pressure he can apply; paradoxically, as he tries, Trap swells a little in his fist and that little bit of extra makes his aim just about at the far side of the hole. "Alright. Whenever you're ready," he says, and he's pretty sure Trapper is staring at his mouth when he licks his lips, even though he's looking down at Trapper's cock and not up at Trapper's face.

Sometimes he can't decide where he wants to look more, that beautiful face framed by those riotous blond curls, or his groin, with its truly excellent dick, even though he's never seen Trapper aroused and _naked_ before.

_But you have seen him aroused,_ a little voice mutters in his ear, and Hawkeye is surprised to realize the truth of this: of how often he's seen Trapper's fatigues tented by an erection when around Hawkeye—and _only_ Hawkeye.

Trapper's cock dribbles urine for a second, as if he's still trying to give himself permission to go, and then it steadies and becomes a fluent stream splashing into the latrine. Hawkeye holds his dick, which softens a little from the pissing, and watches intently as Trapper lets go of his inhibitions.

He really wasn't kidding about having to go, either; he manages a thick shower of urine for what feels like it must be at least two minutes before his stream starts to falter, then taper off.

And when he's finished, shaking off the droplets, Hawkeye's scrubs are sticky, his damp cock outlined in them, a feast for Trapper's eyes as he stares at Hawkeye's crotch. Hawkeye, overwhelmed by emotion and sensation, shoves Trapper against the side of the latrine and, carefully balancing to the side of the hole, drops to his knees and tucks as much of that delicious cock—currently just a bit salty and bitter with urine—into his mouth. He really can't fit much, not even with his vaunted deepthroating technique, but his fist takes up the excess and he pumps Trapper vigorously as he sucks, moaning around the cockhead in his relaxed throat.

"Oh, Jesus, Hawk," Trapper mumbles, and there's a hand in his hair, mussing up his part and so hot against his scalp. Hawkeye hums and strokes his tongue along the vein, finding every sensitive spot until he's right up at the top beneath the flared head, tongue dipping in. Trapper's fingers tighten, squeezing his hair into a vise grip, and he tugs once, twice, before Hawkeye uses his other hand to jam Trapper's hip to the wall. He hangs on tight, even though he recognized the warning.

"Hawk, wait—" Trapper gasps, breath short and rasping, but Hawkeye knows what's coming—literally. He seals his mouth over Trapper's stiffening erection, the way it twitches and pulses in his mouth familiar, and very carefully keeps his throat as relaxed as he can so he doesn't gag when Trapper shoots directly into his throat.

Trapper comes a lot. Hawkeye, who has done this a fair number of times, is impressed even as he's swallowing jet after jet of hot, slick fluid. And then Trapper goes limp against the side of the latrine and Hawkeye pulls off, wheezing a little with effort as he gets back to his feet.

"I'm getting too old to be on my knees all the time," he says, and Trapper huffs out a laugh.

"So next time we'll try it on a bed," he says. "Supply tent, after dinner?"

"I'd let you take me to dinner, Trap, but that's actually more of an insult in this instance than fucking me without it. Supply tent, _before_ dinner?"

"Ya got yourself a deal, Hawk. Now how are we gonna get outta here without lookin' like we been doin' what we been doin'?"

"It's all the attitude," Hawkeye says, but before he can slip away, Trapper's fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Kiss me," he says, and Hawkeye doesn't need telling twice.


End file.
